Poulet - Phenomenology of Reading

7/16/2019 Poulet - Phenomenology of Reading

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Phenomenology of ReadingAuthor(s): Georges PouletSource: New Literary History, Vol. 1, No. 1, New and Old History (Oct., 1969), pp. 53-68Published by: The Johns Hopkins University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/468372 .

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Phenomenology f Reading

GeorgesPoulet

AT THE beginningof Mallarm6's unfinished tory, gitur,theres thedescriptionf anemptyoom,n themiddleofwhich,on a table there s an open book. This seems tome the situation of everybook, until someonecomes andbegins to read it. Books are objects. On a table, on bookshelves,nstorewindows, heywait forsomeoneto comeand deliverthemfromtheirmateriality, rom heir mmobility.When I see themon display,I look at themas I would at animalsfor ale,keptin littlecages,andso obviouslyhoping for a buyer.For - there is no doubting it -animals do know that theirfate depends on a human intervention,thanks owhichtheywill be deliveredfrom heshameofbeingtreatedas objects. sn't thesame trueof books? Made of paper and ink,theylie wherethey re put,until the moment omeone showsan interestin them.They wait. Are theyaware that an act of man mightsud-denlytransform heir existence?They appear to be lit up with thathope. Read me, they eemto say. I find t hard to resist heirappeal.No, books are not just objects amongothers.This feelingtheygiveme - I sometimes ave itwith otherobjects.I have it,forexample,withvases and statues. t would neveroccurtome towalk around a sewingmachineor to look at the under side of aplate. I am quite satisfiedwiththefacetheypresent o me. But statuesmake me want to circle around them,vases make me want to turnthemin myhands. I wonderwhy. sn't it because theygive me theillusion thatthere s somethingn themwhich,from differentngle,I mightbe able to see? Neithervase norstatue seemsfully evealedbythe unbrokenperimeter f its surfaces. n addition to its surfaces tmust have an interior.What this interiormightbe, that is whatintriguesme and makesme circle aroundthem, s though ookingforthe entrance o a secret hamber.But there s no suchentrance (saveforthemouth of thevase,which is not a true entrance ince it givesonly access to a little space to put flowersn). So the vase and thestatue are closed.They oblige me to remain outside.We can have notruerapport- whencemysense ofuneasiness.

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54 NEW LITERARY HISTORYSo muchfor tatues nd vases. hope books are not like them.Buya vase,take ithome,put it on yourtable or yourmantel, nd, after

while, it will allow itselfto be made a part of yourhousehold.Butitwill be no less a vase,forthat.On theotherhand,takea book,andyou will find t offering,pening tself. t is thisopennessof thebookwhich I find o moving.A book is not shutin by itscontours,s notwalled-upas in a fortress.t asksnothingbetter han to exist outsideitself, r to let you exist n it. In short, he extraordinaryact n thecase of a book is thefalling wayof thebarriers etweenyou and it.You are insideit; it is insideyou; there s no longereitheroutsideorinside.Such is the initial phenomenonproducedwhenever take up abook, and begin to read it.At theprecisemomentthat see,surgingout of the object I hold open beforeme, a quantityof significationswhichmymindgrasps, realize that whatI hold in myhands is nolonger ust an object,or even simply living thing. am aware of arational being, of a consciousness; he consciousness f another,nodifferentromthe one I automatically ssume in everyhumanbeingI encounter, xceptthatin thiscase theconsciousness s open to me,welcomesme, lets me look deep inside itself, nd even allows me,

with unheard-oficence,to thinkwhatit thinks nd feel whatitfeels.Unheard-of, say. Unheard-of, irst,s the disappearance of the"object."Where is thebook I held in myhands? t is still there, ndat the same time it is there no longer,it is nowhere.That objectwhollyobject,that thingmade of paper, as thereare thingsmade ofmetal or porcelaine, hatobject is no more,or at least it is as if it nolongerexisted, s long as I read thebook. For the book is no longeramaterialreality. t has becomea series of words,of images,of ideaswhich in their turnbegin to exist.And where s thisnew existence?Surelynot in thepaper object.Nor,surely,n external pace.There isonlyone place leftforthis new existence:my nnermostelf.How has thiscome about?Bywhatmeans,throughwhoseinterces-sion?How can I have opened myown mindso completely o what isusuallyshut out of it? do notknow. knowonlythat,whilereading,I perceive n mymind a number of significations hichhave madethemselves t home there.Doubtless theyare still objects: images,ideas,words,objectsofmy thought.And yet,from hispointofview,there s an enormousdifference.or thebook, ike thevase,or like thestatue,was an objectamongothers, esidingn theexternalworld: theworld whichobjectsordinarilynhabitexclusivelyn their wn societyor each on its own, in no need of being thoughtby my thought;whereas n this nteriorworldwhere, ike fish n an aquarium,words,images and ideas disportthemselves,hesemental entities, n order



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PHENOMENOLOGY OF READING 55to exist,need the shelterwhich provide; they re dependenton myconsciousness.

This dependence s at once a disadvantage nd an advantage.As Ihave just observed, t is theprivilegeof exteriorobjects to dispensewithany interferencerom he mind. All theyask is to be let alone.They managebythemselves. ut thesameis surelynot trueof interiorobjects.Bydefinitionhey re condemned o changetheirverynature,condemned to lose their materiality.They become images, ideas,words,that is to saypurelymentalentities. n sum, n orderto existas mentalobjects,theymustrelinquishtheirexistence s real objects.On the one hand, this s cause forregret.As soon as I replace mydirectperceptionof realityby the words of a book, I delivermyself,bound hand and foot to theomnipotence f fiction. sayfarewell owhatis, in orderto feignbelief n what s not. I surroundmyselfwithfictitious eings;I becomethepreyof language.There is no escapingthis take-over. anguage surroundsme with its unreality.On theotherhand, the transmutationhrough anguage of realityinto a fictional quivalent,has undeniable advantages.The universeof fictions infinitelymore elasticthantheworldofobjectivereality.It lends itself o anyuse; it yieldswith ittleresistance o the impor-tunities f themind. Moreover and of all itsbenefits findthis themostappealing - this nterior niverseconstituted y language doesnot seemradicallyopposed to theme who thinks t. DoubtlesswhatI glimpse throughthe words are mental formsnot divestedof anappearance of objectivity.But theydo not seem to be of a natureother thanmymind which thinksthem.They are objects,but sub-jectifiedobjects. In short,since everything as become part of mymind,thanksto the nterventionf language,theoppositionbetweenthesubjectand itsobjectshas been considerablyttenuated.And thusthegreatest dvantageof literature s that am persuaded by it thatI am freedfrommyusual senseof incompatibility etweenmycon-sciousnessand its objects.This is theremarkabletransformation rought n me through heact ofreading.Not onlydoes it cause thephysicalobjectsaround meto disappear, includingthe verybook I am reading,but it replacesthose external objects with a congeriesof mental objects in closerapport with my own consciousness.And yet the veryintimacy nwhich I now live withmyobjects is going to presentme with newproblems.The most curiousof these s thefollowing: am someonewho happens to have as objects of his own thought, houghtswhichare part of a book I am reading,and whichare thereforehe cogita-tions of another.They are thethoughts fanother, nd yet t is I whoam theirsubject. The situation is even more astonishingthan theone noted above. I am thinking he thoughts f another.Of course,



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56 NEW LITERARY HISTORYtherewould be no cause for astonishmentf I werethinkingt as thethoughtof another.But I think t as myveryown. Ordinarily hereis the I which thinks,which recognizes tself (when it takes itsbearings) in thoughtswhichmayhave comefrom lsewhere utwhichit takesupon itself s its own in themoment t thinks hem.This ishowwe must takeDiderot's declaration Mes pensees ontmescatins"("My thoughts re mywhores"). That is, they leep witheverybodywithoutceasingto belong to their author.Now, in the presentcasethingsare quite different. ecause of the strange nvasion of myperson by the thoughts f another, am a selfwho is grantedtheexperienceof thinkingthoughtsforeignto him. I am the subjectof thoughts therthanmyown. My consciousness ehaves as thoughit were theconsciousness f another.This meritsreflection.n a certainsenseI mustrecognizethatnoidea reallybelongstome. Ideas belongtono one. They passfrom nemind to another as coins pass fromhand to hand. Consequently,nothingcould be moremisleadingthan theattempt o define con-sciousness ythe deaswhich tutters r entertains. utwhatever heseideas maybe,however trong he tiewhichbindsthemto their ource,howevertransitory aybe their ojournin myownmind, o longas Ientertain hem assertmyself s subjectof these deas; I am thesub-jectiveprincipleforwhom the ideas serveforthe timebeing as thepredications. urthermore,hissubjectiveprinciplecan in no wisebeconceivedas a predication, s somethingwhich is discussed, eferredto. It is I who think,who contemplate,who am engaged n speaking.In short,t is nevera HE but an I.Now whathappenswhenI read a book?Am I thenthesubjectof aseries of predicationswhichare not mypredications? hat is impossi-ble, perhapseven a contradiction n terms. feelsure that as soon asI thinksomething, hatsomething ecomes n some indefinablewaymyown. Whatever think s a part of mymentalworld. And yethere I am thinking thoughtwhichmanifestly elongs to anothermentalworld,which s beingthoughtn me just as though did notexist.Alreadythe notionis inconceivable nd seemsevenmoreso ifreflect hat,since everythoughtmusthave a subjectto think t, thisthoughtwhichis alien to me and yet n me,mustalso have in me asubjectwhichis alien to me. It all happens,then,as thoughreadingwere the act bywhicha thoughtmanagedto bestow tselfwithinmewith a subjectnotmyself.Whenever read,I mentally ronounceanI, and yetthe I which I pronounce s not myself. his is true evenwhen thehero of a novel is presented n the thirdperson, nd evenwhenthere s no heroand nothingbutreflectionsrpropositions: oras soon as somethings presented s thought, herehas to be a think-ing subject with whom,at least for the time being, I identify, or-



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PHENOMENOLOGY OF READING 57getting myself,alienated from myself."JE est un autre." saidRimbaud. Another , who has replaced myown, and who will con-tinue to do so as longas I read. Reading is just that: a wayofgivingwaynot only to a host of alien words, mages, deas, but also to thevery lien principlewhichutters hem and shelters hem.The phenomenon s indeed hard to explain, even to conceive, ndyet,once admitted, t explainstome whatmightotherwise eemevenmore inexplicable.For how could I explain,without such take-overofmyinnermostsubjectivebeing,theastonishing acilitywith whichI not onlyunderstandbut even feel what I read. When I read as Iought, .e. withoutmentalreservation,without nydesireto preservemy independenceof judgment,and with the total commitment e-quired of any reader,my comprehension ecomes intuitiveand anyfeelingproposedto me is immediatelyssumedbyme. In otherwords,thekind of comprehensionn questionhere is not a movement romthe unknown to the known,fromthe strangeto the familiar,fromoutside to inside. It mightratherbe called a phenomenonbywhichmentalobjectsriseup from hedepthsof consciousnessnto thelightof recognition.On the otherhand - and without contradictionreading implies somethingresemblingthe apperception I have ofmyself,heactionbywhich graspstraightway hatI think s beingthoughtby a subject (who, in thiscase, is not, I). Whateversortofalienation I may endure,reading does not interpretmy activity ssubject.Reading, then, s theact in which thesubjectiveprinciplewhichcall I, is modified n sucha waythat no longerhave theright, trictlyspeaking,to consider t as myI. I am on loan to another, nd thisother thinks, feels, suffers,nd acts within me. The phenomenonappears in itsmostobviousand evennaivestform n thesort ofspellbrought bout bycertaincheap kindsofreading, uch as thrillers,fwhich I say "It grippedme." Now it is important o note that thispossessionof myself y another takesplace not onlyon the level ofobjective thought,that is with regard to images,sensations, deaswhichreadingaffordsme,but also on the evel ofmyvery ubjectivity.When I am absorbed n reading, second selftakesover,a selfwhichthinksand feelsfor me. Withdrawn n some recess of myself, o Ithen silentlywitness this dispossession?Do I derive fromit somecomfort r,on thecontrary, kind ofanguish?Howeverthatmaybe,someone else holds the centerof the stage,and the question whichimposesitself,which I am absolutelyobliged to ask myself,s this:"Who is the usurperwho occupies the forefront?What is this mindwho all alone by himselffillsmyconsciousness nd who,when I sayI, is indeed that ?"There is an immediate nswerto thisquestion, perhapstoo easyan



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58 NEW LITERARY HISTORYanswer.This I who thinks n me whenI read a book, is theI of theone who writesthe book. When I read Baudelaire or Racine, it isreally Baudelaire or Racine who thinks,feels,allows himselfto beread withinme. Thus a book is not onlya book, it is the means bywhich an authoractuallypreserves is ideas,hisfeelings, ismodesofdreaming nd living. t is hismeansofsavinghis identity romdeath.Such an interpretationfreading s not false. t seemsto justifywhatis commonlycalled the biographical explication of literarytexts.Indeed everywordof literature s impregnatedwith the mindof theone who wrote it. As he makes us read it, he awakens in us theanalogue of whathe thought r felt.To understand literarywork,then, s to let the individualwho wrote t reveal himself o us in us.It is not thebiographywhichexplicatesthework,but rather heworkwhichsometimes nablesus to understand hebiography.But biographical nterpretations in part false and misleading. tis true that there s an analogybetween theworksof an author andtheexperiencesof his life.The worksmaybe seen as an incompletetranslation f the life. And further,here s an even moresignificantanalogyamong all the worksof a singleauthor. Each of theworks,however,while I am reading t, lives in me itsown life. The subjectwho is revealed to me throughmyreadingof it is not the author,eitherin the disorderedtotality f his outerexperiences, r in theaggregate, etter rganized nd concentratedotality, hich s the oneof his writings. et thesubjectwhichpresidesoverthe workcan existonly n thework.To be sure,nothing s unimportant orunderstand-ing thework, nd a mass ofbiographical, ibliographical, extual, ndgeneral critical information s indispensable to me. And yet thisknowledgedoes not coincide withthe nternalknowledge fthework.Whatevermaybe thesumoftheinformation acquire on BaudelaireorRacine,in whatever egreeof ntimacy may ivewiththeirgenius,I am aware that this contribution(apport) does notsuffice o illumi-nate forme in its own innermeaning, n itsformalperfection,nd inthe subjectiveprinciplewhich animates it, the particularwork ofBaudelaire or Racine thereadingof whichnow absorbsme. At thismomentwhatmatters o me is to live,fromthe inside,in a certainidentitywiththeworkand theworkalone. It could hardlybe other-wise. Nothingexternalto the work could possiblyshare the extra-ordinary laim whichthework now exerts n me. It is therewithinme,not to sendme back,outside tself, o itsauthor,nor to his otherwritings, ut on the contrary o keep myattention ivetted n itself.It is the workwhichtraces n me theveryboundaries withinwhichthisconsciousnesswill define tself. t is the workwhichforces n mea series fmentalobjectsand creates nmea networkfwords, eyondwhich,for the timebeing, therewill be no room forothermental



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PHENOMENOLOGY OF READING 59objects or for other words.And it is the work,finally,which,notsatisfiedhuswithdefininghe content fmyconsciousness,akesholdof it, appropriates t, and makes of it that which,fromone end ofmy readingto the other,presidesover theunfolding f thework,ofthe singlework whichI am reading.And so the workforms he temporarymentalsubstancewhich fillsmyconsciousness; nd it is moreover hatconsciousness,he -subject,the continued consciousnessof what is, revealingitselfwithin theinterior f thework.Such is the characteristiconditionofeveryworkwhich I summonback into existenceby placingmyconsciousness tits disposal. I give it not only existence,but awarenessof existence.And so I oughtnot to hesitateto recognizethatso long as it is ani-matedbythisvital inbreathingnspiredby theact ofreading, workof literature ecomes (at the expenseof thereaderwhose own lifeitsuspends)a sort of humanbeing,thatit is a mind conscious of itselfand constitutingtself n me as thesubjectof itsown objects.

IIThe work lives its own lifewithinme; in a certainsense, t thinksitself, nd it evengives tself meaningwithinme.This strangedisplacementof myselfby the work deserves to beexamined even more closely.If the work thinks itself n me, does this mean that, during acomplete loss of consciousness n my part, anotherthinkingentityinvadesme, taking dvantageofmyunconsciousnessn orderto thinkitselfwithoutmy being able to think t?Obviouslynot.The annexa-tionofmyconsciousness y another (theotherwhich s thework) inno way impliesthatI am thevictimof anydeprivation f conscious-ness. Everythinghappens, on the contrary, s though, from themoment becomea preyto what I read, I begin to sharethe use ofmyconsciousnesswiththisbeingwhom have tried to define nd whois the conscious ubjectensconced t theheartof thework. He and I,we starthavinga common consciousness. oubtless,withinthiscom-munityof feeling, he parts played by each of us are not of equalimportance.The consciousness nherent n the work is active andpotent; it occupies the foreground; t is clearlyrelated to its ownworld, to objects which are its objects. In opposition, myself, l-thoughconsciousof whatever t maybe consciousof, I play a muchmorehumblerole,content o recordpassively ll that s goingin me.A lag takesplace, a sortof schizoid distinction etweenwhat I feeland what the otherfeels; a confused warenessof delay,so that thework seemsfirst o thinkbyitself, nd thento informme what t has



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60 NEW LITERARY HISTORYthought.Thus I oftenhave the impression,whilereading,of simplywitnessing n action which at the same time concerns nd yetdoesnot concernme. This provokes certainfeeling fsurprisewithinme.I am a consciousness stonishedby an existencewhich is not mine,but whichI experience s though t were mine.This astonishedconsciousness s in fact the consciousness f thecritic: the consciousness f a beingwho is allowed to apprehendasits own what is happening in the consciousness f anotherbeing.Awareofa certaingap, disclosing feeling fidentity,ut of identitywithindifference,riticalconsciousness oes not necessarilymplythetotal disappearanceof the critic'smind in themind to be criticized.From the partial and hesitantapproximationof Jacques Riviere tothe exalted,digressive nd triumphant pproximation f CharlesDuBos, criticism an pass through whole seriesof nuances which wewould be well advised to study.That is what I now proposeto do.By discovering he various forms f identificationnd non-identifica-tion to be found n recent riticalwritingn French iterature, shallbe able perhaps to give a better account of the variationsof whichthisrelationship betweencriticizingubjectand criticizedobject -is capable.

Let me take a first xample. In the case of the first ritic shallspeakof,thisfusionoftwo consciousnessessbarely uggested.t is anuncertainmovementof the mind toward an object which remainshidden.Whereas in the perfectdentificationf twoconsciousnesses,each sees itself eflectedn theother, n this nstancethecriticalcon-sciousness an, at best,attemptbut to draw closerto a realitywhichmust remain forever eiled. In thisattempt t uses theonlymediatorsavailable to it in thisquest, that is the senses.And since sight,themost intellectualof the fivesenses, eems in thisparticularcase tocome up againsta basic opacity,thecriticalmindmustapproach itsgoal blindly,throughthe tactile explorationof surfaces, hroughgropingexplorationof the materialworldwhichseparates hecriticalmind from tsobject.Thus, despitetheimmense ffort n thepartofthe sympatheticntelligenceto lower itselfto a level where it can,however amely,makesomeprogressn itsquest towardthe conscious-ness of theother, hisenterprises destined o failure.One sensesthattheunfortunateritic s condemnednever tofulfilldequatelyhis roleas reader.He stumbles, e puzzles,he questions wkwardly languagewhichhe is condemnedneverto read withease; or rather,n tryingoread thelanguage,he uses a keywhichenables him to translate ut afraction f the text.This critic s Jacques Rivibre.And yet t is fromthisfailure thata much latercriticwill derivea moresuccessfulmethod ofapproaching text.With this atercritic,



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PHENOMENOLOGY OF READING 61as withRiviere,the whole projectbeginswith an attempt t identi-ficationon the mostbasic level. But thismostprimitive evel is theone in which thereflows, rom mind to mind, a currentwhich hasonly to be followed. To identifywith thework means here,forthecritic,to undergo the same experiences,beginningwith the mostelementary. n the evel ofindistincthought, fsensations,motions,images, nd obsessions f preconsciousife, t is possibleforthe criticto repeat,withinhimself, hat life of which the work affords firstversion, inexhaustibly revealing and suggestive.And yet such animitation ould not takeplace, in a domain so hard todefine,withoutthe aid of a powerful uxiliary.This auxiliary s language.There isno critical identificationwhich is not prepared,realized,and incar-nated throughthe agency of language. The deepest sentientlife,hidden in the recessesof another'sthoughts, ould neverbe trulytransposed,aveforthe mediationofwordswhich allow a whole seriesofequivalencesto arise. To describe hisphenomenon s it takesplacein thecriticism am speakingofnow, can no longerbe contentwiththe usual distinctionsbetween the signifier (signifiant) and thesignified (signifid)for what would it mean here to say that thelanguage of the criticsignifies he language of the literarywork?There is not just equation, similitude.Words have attained a veri-table powerofrecreation; hey re a sortofmaterialentity,olid andthree-dimensional,hanks to which a certain life of the senses isreborn, indingn a network fverbalconnotationshevery onditionsnecessary or tsreplication. n otherwords,the languageof criticismherededicates tself o the businessofmimicking hysicallyheapper-ceptual world of the author.Strangely nough,the language of thissort of mimetic criticismbecomes even more tangible,more tactilethan the author'sown; thepoetry fthecriticbecomesmore"poetic"than thepoet's.This verbalmimesis, onsciously xaggerated,s in nowayservile,nordoes it tendat all toward hepastiche.And yet t canreach its object only insofaras that object is deeply enmeshedin,almost confoundedwith,physicalmatter.This formof criticism sthusable to providean admirableequivalentof thevital substratumwhich underlies all thought, nd yet it seemsincapable of attainingand expressing thoughtitself. This criticism s both helped andhinderedby the language which it employs;helped, insofaras thislanguage allows it to expressthe sensuous life in its original state,where t is still almost mpossibleto distinguish etweensubjectandobject; and yet hindered,too, because this language, too congealedand opaque, does not lend itself o analysis, nd because the subjec-tivitywhichit evokes and describes s as thoughforevermired in itsobjects.And so theactivity fcriticismn thiscase is somehow ncom-plete, in spite of its remarkable successes. dentification elativeto



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62 NEWLITERARYHISTORYobjects is accomplishedalmosttoo well; relativeto subjectivityt isbarelysketched.This, then, s thecriticism fJean-Pierre ichard.In itsextreme orm,n theabolitionofanysubjectwhatsoever,hiscriticism eems to extract froma literarywork a certaincondensedmatter, materialessence.But what,then,would be a criticismwhich would be the reverse,which would abolish theobject and extract rom hetextstheirmostsubjectiveelements?To conceivesuch a criticism, mustleap to theoppositeextreme.I imagine critical anguagewhichwouldattempt eliberatelyostriptheliteraryanguageofanythingoncrete.n sucha criticismtwouldbe theartful imofevery ine,ofevery entence, feverymetaphor, feveryword, to reduce to the near nothingness f abstractiontheimagesof the real worldreflectedyliterature. f literature,ydefini-tion, s alreadya transportationf thereal into theunreality fverbalconception, henthe critical ct in thiscasewill constitute transpo-sitionof thistransposition,husraisingto the secondpowerthe "de-realization"of being through anguage. In thisway, the mind putsthe maximumdistancebetweenits thoughtand what is. Thanks tothis withdrawal, nd to the consequent dematerialization f everyobject thuspushedto thevanishingpoint,theuniverse epresentednthis criticism eemsnot so much the equivalent of the perceivableworld,or of its literary epresentation,s rather ts image crystallizedthrough processofrigorous ntellectualization. ere criticism s nolongermimesis; t is the reduction of all literary orms o the samelevel of insignificance.n short,what survivesthis attempted nni-hilationof literature y thecriticalact?Nothingperhapssave a con-sciousnessceaselesslyconfrontinghe hollownessof mental objects,which yield withoutresistance, nd an absolutelytransparentan-guage,which,by coatingall objectswiththesame clearglaze,makesthem ("like leaves seen farbeneath the ice") appear to be infinitelyfar away. Thus, the language of this criticism lays a role exactlyopposite to the function t has in Jean-Pierre ichard's criticism.tdoes indeed bringabout the unification f criticalthoughtwith themental worldrevealedby the literarywork;but it brings t about atthe expenseof thework.Everythings finally nnexedbythedomin-ion of a consciousness etached from nyobject,a hyper-criticalon-sciousness,functioningll alone, somewhere n thevoid.Is there any need to say that this hyper-criticisms the criticalthoughtof Maurice Blanchot?I have foundit usefulto compare the criticism f Richard to thecriticism f Blanchot. I learn from hisconfrontation hat thecritic'slinguistic pparatus can, just as he chooses,bringhim closer to the



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PHENOMENOLOGY OF READING 63work under consideration, r can removehim from t indefinitely.fhe so wishes,he can approximatevery closelythework in question,thanksto a verbal mimesiswhichtransposesnto thecritic's anguagethe sensuous themesof the work. Or else he can make language apure crystallizinggent,an absolute translucence, hich, ufferingoopacityto exist betweensubjectand object,promotes he exerciseofthecognitivepoweron thepartof thesubject,while at the same timeaccentuating n the object those characteristics hich emphasizeitsinfinite istancefrom hesubject. n thefirstfthetwocases,criticismachievesa remarkablecomplicity, ut at the risk of losing its mini-mum lucidity; in the second case, it results n the most completedissociation;themaximum uciditythereby chievedonlyconfirmsseparationinstead of a union.Thus criticismeemsto oscillatebetweentwopossibilities: unionwithoutcomprehension,nd a comprehensionwithout union. I mayidentifyo completelywith what I am reading that I lose conscious-ness not only of myself, ut also of that otherconsciousnesswhichliveswithinthe work. ts proximity lindsme by blocking mypros-pect. But I may, on the otherhand, separate myself o completelyfrom what I am contemplating hat the thoughtthusremovedto adistance assumestheaspectof a beingwithwhomI mayneverestab-lish anyrelationshipwhatsoever.n eithercase,the act ofreadinghasdelivered me fromegocentricity:nother'sthought nhabitsme orhauntsme, but in thefirst ase I lose myselfn that alien world,andin the otherwe keep our distance and refuseto identify. xtremecloseness and extremedetachmenthave then the same regrettableeffect fmakingme fall shortof the total critical ct: that s to say,the explorationof that mysteriousnterrelationship hich,throughthe mediationofreadingand of anguage, s established o ourmutualsatisfaction etween the work read and myself.Thus extremeproximity nd extreme eparation each have gravedisadvantages.And yet theyhave theirprivilegesas well. Sensuousthought s privileged o move at once to theheart of theworkand toshare its own life; clear thought s privileged o confer n itsobjectsthe highestdegree of intelligibility. wo sorts of insightare heredistinguishable nd mutuallyexclusive: there s penetrationby thesenses and penetrationby the reflective onsciousness.Now ratherthan contrastinghesetwo forms f criticalactivity,would there notbe someway, wonder,not of practicing hemsimultaneously, hichwould be impossible,but at least of combiningthemthrough kindof reciprocation nd alternation?Is not thisperhapsthemethod used todaybyJeanStarobinski? orinstance, t would not be difficult o findin his work a numberoftexts which relate him to Maurice Blanchot. Like Blanchot he dis-



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64 NEW LITERARY HISTORYplays exceptional ucidity nd an acuteawareness f distance.And yethe does not quite abandon himself o Blanchot's habitual pessimism.On the contrary, e seems inclinedto optimism, ven at timesto apleasantutopianism. tarobinski's ntellectn thisrespect s analogousto that of Rousseau, yearningforan immediatetransparence f allbeings to each otherwhichwould enable themto understandeachother n an ecstatichappiness.Fromthispointofview, snotthe dealof criticism recisely epresented y thefetecitadine (street elebra-tion) or fetechampftre rusticfeast) There is a milieu or a momentin the feast n whicheveryone ommunicateswith everyone lse, inwhich hearts are open like books. On a moremodestscale, doesn'tthe same phenomenonoccurin reading?Does notone beingopen itsinnermost elf? s not theotherbeingenchantedby thisopening? nthe criticism f Starobinskiwe often find that crystalline empo ofmusic, that pure delight in understanding, hat perfectsympathybetween an intelligencewhich enters and that intelligencewhichwelcomes t.In such moments f harmony, here s no longer any exclusion,noinside or outside.Contrary o Blanchot'sbelief,perfect ranslucencedoes not result n separation.On thecontrary, ithStarobinski,ll isperfect greement,oy shared,the pleasure of :inderstandingnd ofbeing understood.Moreover,such pleasure,howeverintellectual tmaybe, is not here exclusively pleasureof themind. For the rela-tionshipestablishedon this level between author and critic s not arelationshipbetween pure minds. It is rather between incarnatebeings,and the particularities f theirphysicalexistenceconstitutenot obstaclesto understanding,ut rathera complexof supplemen-tary igns, veritable anguagewhichmustbe deciphered nd whichenhancesmutualcomprehension.hus forStarobinski,s muchphysi-cian as critic, here s a readingof bodies which s likened to the read-ingof minds. t is not of the samenature,nordoes it bringthe intel-ligence to bear on the same area of humanknowledge.But forthecriticwho practices t, this criticism rovidesthe opportunity or areciprocating xchangebetweendifferentypes f earningwhichhave,perhaps,differentegreesof transparency.Starobinski'scriticism, hen, displays great flexibility.Rising attimes to the heightsof metaphysics,t does not disdain the farthestreaches of the subsconscious. t is sometimes ntimate,sometimesdetached; it assumesall the degreesof identification nd non-identi-fication.But its finalmovement eems to consist n a sortof with-drawal, contradistinctionwith its earlier accord. After an initialintimacywith the object under study,this criticismhas finallytodetach itself, o moveon, but thistime n solitude.Let us notsee thiswithdrawal s a failureof sympathy ut rather s a wayof avoiding



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PHENOMENOLOGY OF READING 65the encumbrances f too prolongeda life in common.Above all wediscernan acute need to establishbearings,to adopt the judiciousperspective, o assess the fruits f proximity y examiningthemat adistance.Thus, Starobinski's riticism lwaysends with a view fromafar,or ratherfrom bove, for whilemoving away it has also movedimperceptibly oward a dominating (surplombante) position.Doesthis mean thatStarobinski's riticismikeBlanchot's s doomed to endin a philosophy f separation?This, in a way,must be conceded,andit is no coincidence hat Starobinskireatswithspecialcare the themesof melancholyand nostalgia.His criticism lwaysconcludes with adouble farewell. ut thisfarewells exchangedbytwobeingswho havebegun by living together; nd the one leftbehind continues to beilluminatedbythat critical ntellectwhichmoves on.The sole faultwithwhich I might reproachsuch criticisms theexcessive ase with which it penetrateswhat it illuminates.By dint ofseeing n literaryworksonlythethoughtswhichinhabitthem,Starobinski's riticism omehowpassesthrough heirforms, otneglecting hem, t is true,but withoutpausingon theway.Under itsaction literaryworks ose theiropacity,theirsolidity, heirobjectivedimension; ikethosepalace wallswhichbecometransparentn certainfairy ales.And if " is true thatthe ideal act of criticismmust seize(and reproduce) that certainrelationshipbetweenan object and amind which s theworkitself, ow could theact of criticismucceedwhen it suppresses ne of the (polar) terms f thisrelationship?My searchmust continue,then,fora criticismn which this rela-tionship ubsists. ould it perhapsbe thecriticismfMarcelRaymondand JeanRousset?Raymond'scriticismlwaysrecognizes hepresenceof a double reality, oth mentaland formal. t strives o comprehendalmostsimultaneouslyn innerexperience nd a perfected orm.Onthe one hand, no one allows himself o be absorbed withsuch com-plete self-forgetfulnessnto the thoughtof another.But the other'sthought s graspednot at its highest, ut at its most obscure,at itscloudiestpoint, at the point at which it is reducedto being a mereself-awarenesscarcely erceivedbythebeingwhichentertainst,andwhichyetto the eyesof the criticseems the sole means of accessbywhichhe can penetratewithin theprecincts f the alien mind.But Raymond'scriticism resents notheraspectwhichis preciselythereverse f this confused dentification f the critic's houghtwiththe thoughtcriticized. t is then the reflective ontemplationof aformalrealitywhich is the work itself.The work stands beforethecritical ntelligence s a perfected bject,which is in factan enigma,an externalthingexisting n itself nd with whichthere s no possi-bilityof identification or of innerknowledge.Thus Raymond perceives ometimes subject, ometimes n object.



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66 NEWLITERARYHISTORYThe subject s puremind; it is a sheer ndefinable resence, n almostinchoateentity,nto which,by veryvirtueof its absenceof form, tbecomespossibleforthecritic'smind to penetrate.The work,on thecontrary,xistsonlywithin a definite orm, ut this definitionimitsit, encloses t within ts own contours, t the same timeconstrainingthe mind whichstudies t to remainon theoutside. So that, fon theone hand the criticalthought f Raymondtendsto lose itselfwithinan undefined ubjectivity, n the other it tends to come to a stopbefore an impenetrable bjectivity.Admirablygifted o submithis own subjectivityo thatof another,and thus to immerse tself n the obscurestdepthsof everymentalentity, hemind of Raymondis less well equipped to penetrate heobstaclepresented ytheobjectivesurface f theworks.He then findshimselfmarking ime, rmoving n circles roundthework, s aroundthevase or the statuementionedbefore.Does Raymondthenestablishan insurmountable artitionbetween the two realities- subjective,objective- unifiedthough theymaybe in the work?No, indeed,atleast not in his bestessays, ince in them,by careful ntuitive ppre-hensionofthetextand participation ythe critic n thepowers ctivein thepoet'suse oflanguage,there ppearssome kindof link betweentheobjectiveaspectsof thework and theundefined ubjectivity hichsustains t.A linknot to be confusedwith a purerelationof identity.The perceptionof the formal spectsof the workbecomes somehowan analogical languagebymeansofwhich t becomespossiblefor thecriticto go, within the work,beyondthe formalaspectsit presents.Nevertheless his association is never presentedby Raymond as adialecticalprocess.The usual state describedby hismethodof critic-ism is one of plenitude,and even of a double plenitude.A certainfulness f experiencedetected n thepoet and re-livedn the mindofthecritic, s connectedbythe latterwith a certainperfectionfform;but why this is so, and how it does become so, is never clearlyexplained.Now is it then possible to go one step further? his is what isattempted yJeanRousset, formertudent fRaymondand perhapshis closest friend.He also dedicates himself o the task of discerningthe structure f a work as well as the depth of an experience.Onlywhat essentiallymatters o him is to establisha connectionbetweentheobjectivereality fthe work nd theorganizing owerwhichgivesit shape.A work s not explainedforhim,as forthestructuralists,ythe exclusiveinterdependence f the objectiveelementswhich com-pose it. He does not see in it a fortuitous ombination, nterpreteda posteriori s if itwere an a prioriorganization. here is not in hiseyes any system f the workwithout a principleof systematizationwhich operates in correlationwith that work and which is even



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PHENOMENOLOGY OF READING 67included in it. In short, here s no spider-webwithout centerwhichis the spider.On the otherhand, it is not a questionof goingfromthe work to the psychologyf the author,but of goingback,withinthe sphere of the work,from the objective elementssystematicallyarranged,to a certainpower of organization, nherent n the workitself, s if the latter showed itself o be an intentionalconsciousnessdetermining ts arrangements nd solving its problems.So that itwould scarcely e an abuse of terms o saythat t speaks,bymeans ofits structuralelements,an authenticlanguage, thanks to which itdiscloses tself nd meansnothingbut itself. uch then is the criticalenterprise fJean Rousset. t setsitself o use the objectiveelementsof thework n orderto attain,beyondthem, realitynot formal,norobjective,writtendown howeverin formsand expressing tselfbymeansof them.Thus theunderstandingf formsmust not limit tselfmerely o therecording f theirobjectiveaspects.As Focillon demon-stratedfrom hepointofviewof arthistory,here s a "lifeof forms"perceptiblenot only in the historicdevelopmentwhichthey displayfromepoch to epoch,but withineach singlework, n themovementbywhich forms endtherein ometimes o stabilizeand becomestatic,and sometimes o change ntoone another.Thus the twocontradictoryforceswhich are always at work in any literarywriting, he will tostability nd the proteanimpulse,help us to perceiveby their nter-play how muchforms re dependenton whatColeridgecalled a shap-ingpowerwhich determineshem, eplacesthem nd transcendshem.The teachingofRaymondfinds hen itsmostsatisfyinguccess n thecriticalmethodofJeanRousset, methodwhich eads the seekerfromthe continuously hangingfrontiersf form o what is beyondform.It is fittinghento conclude this nquiryhere,since it has achievedits goal, namelyto describe,relyingon a series of moreor less ade-quate examples, a criticalmethod having as guiding principle therelation betweensubject and object. Yet thereremains one last dif-ficulty. n order to establishthe interrelationship etween subjectand object, which is the principleof all creativework and of theunderstanding f it, twoways,at least theoretically,re opened, oneleadingfrom heobjectsto thesubject,theotherfrom he subjecttothe objects.Thus we have seen Raymond and Rousset,throughper-ceptionof the objectivestructures f a literarywork, triveto attainthesubjectiveprinciplewhichupholds it. But, in so doing, they eemto recognizethe precedenceof the subject over its objects. WhatRaymondand Rousset are searchingfor n the objectiveand formalaspectsof thework, s somethingwhich is previousto thework andon which theworkdependsfor tsvery xistence. o thatthemethodwhichleads from heobject to thesubjectdoes not differadicallyatbottom from he one which eads from ubjectto object,since it does



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68 NEW LITERARY HISTORYreallyconsist n goingfrom ubjectto subjectthrough heobject.Yetthere s theriskofoverlookingn important oint.The aim of critic-ism is not achievedmerelyby the understanding f the part playedby the subjectin its interrelationwithobjects.When readinga liter-arywork,there s a momentwhen it seems to me that the subjectpresent n this workdisengages tselffrom ll thatsurrounds t, andstandsalone. Had I not once the intuitionof this,whenvisiting heScuola de San Rocco in Venice, one of the highest ummits f art,where there are assembledso many paintingsof the same painter,Tintoretto?When looking at all these masterpiecesbroughttheretogether nd revealing o manifestlyheirunityof inspiration, hadsuddenly the impressionof having reached the common essencepresent n all the worksof a greatmaster, n essencewhich was notable to perceive, xceptwhenemptyingmymindofall theparticularimagescreatedbytheartist. became aware of a subjectivepoweratwork n all thesepictures, nd yetnever o clearlyunderstoodby mymind as when I had forgottenll theirparticularfigurations.One mayask oneself:What is thissubject eft tanding n isolationafter ll examinationof a literarywork? s it theindividualgeniusofthe artist,visiblypresent n his work,yet having an invisible lifeindependentof the work?Or is it, as Valdrythinks, n anonymousand abstractconsciousness residing,n its aloofness, ver the opera-tionsof all more concreteconsciousness?Whatever t maybe, I amconstrainedto acknowledgethat all subjective activitypresent n aliterarywork s not entirely xplained by itsrelationshipwith formsand objectswithinthework.There is in the worka mental activityprofoundly ngaged n objectiveforms; nd there s, at another evel,forsakingll forms, subjectwhichreveals tself o itself and to me)in its transcendencever all whichis reflected n it. At thispoint,noobject can any longerexpress t,no structurean any longerdefine t;it is exposed in its ineffabilitynd in itsfundamentalindeterminacy.Such is perhapsthe reasonwhythecritic,n his elucidationofworks,is hauntedbythistranscendencef mind. It seemsthenthatcriticism,in order to accompanythemind in this effort f detachmentfromitself, eeds to annihilate, r at leastmomentarilyo forget,heobjec-tiveelements f thework, nd to elevate tself o theapprehension fa subjectivitywithoutobjectivity.

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Poulet - Phenomenology of Reading